


Happy Birthday, Clara Oswald.

by owedbetter



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:00:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2661251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owedbetter/pseuds/owedbetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Born on the 23rd of November 1986, Clara Oswald turns 28 today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday, Clara Oswald.

It's a Sunday. She wakes up alone. She's twenty eight today.

There is no morning birdsong that greets her. She is not even greeted with the sweet mercy of the morning Sun's gentle warmth that would so creep from the cracks of her curtains, joining her duvet's embrace of her. No, instead she wakes for no reason other than she wakes up. Eyelids flutter and she drinks in the sound of pitter patter against glass, as if knocking on her windows, asking for entry. Polite rain. How quaint.

Church bells will ring for devotees to come streaming in by now. Some children will be allowed to sleep in as a kindness granted for the week's worth of school to come by morrow. Clara simply lays in bed. Her pillows are soft around her and the bright apricot of her walls are clouded by the grey tinge of the sky outside. She has no reason to get up quickly but she does. There is a stack of cards by her bedside and beside it, her phone. A few text messages when she looks, of course, as there are some people who remembered; she does not read them, she only looks at the time. She gets up, brown hair in a state of sleep-born disarray yet still neat enough. There is a solemn quiet about her flat, despite the ricochet of the rain's echoes, but it is not one that is poignant in nature. She has been a beacon of silence for the last few weeks. All around her are conversations turned hushed, whispered prayers; all she has to do is walk by and heads will bow and turn away, like God's six-winged angels that dare not even look upon His holiness. She's noticed; she's long since stopped listening.

Clara puts the kettle on and sets her mug near it, readied with a bag of tea. There is no post on Sundays but there is no matter. She'd gotten some cards the Friday prior; she has three emails, if she were to check (two of them automated, one of them from her father). The kettle whistles. She lets the tea steep. Inside her refrigerator is a box that she takes and inside it, a simple cake. Her name had long been cut out of it from having had it for breakfast the day before. She takes a slice of it now and puts it on a plate. Her refrigerator is near bare aside from it. She takes her tea and cake and makes her way back to her bedroom where her bed had remained unmade. She sits, legs crossed in a lotus-position, and (after a hearty sip) sets the tea down beside her, as well as the cake. From her bedside, she takes the stack of cards and her phone.

It had been sweet, that Friday prior. The other teachers remembered (or it was simply in the database) and chipped in to get her cakes and cards. It was the closest it had ever been to being normal, that lunch hour. They had all sung happy birthday -- all expected smiles and rehearsed (near-instinctual) almost hymns of half-meant well wishes -- and shared a slice of the communal cake with one another. Then came a few announcements and reminders; and off to work they were once again. They filed out like a wasp's nest that came a-dropping. Some of the kids had known and come end of class, they went to her desk and gave her a card. Some of them were bought and written on, some were made from scratch (though the ones made from scratch were mostly from some of the younger kids). Some of them didn't care. Whispers of Ms Oddbod & how Ozzie lost her Squaddie still lingered about and they did not fall on deaf ears, no. It was not that she did not care; it was more that nothing could possibly hurt her more than it already has. She does not wish the pain away; this is her remorse. They tiptoe around her as if she were thin ice and the tiniest feather could make the dam break and flood them all; they speak in whispers around her as if one wrong soft gust of wind could set off her last snowflake and she were but an avalanche waiting to happen. Yet bury it down, she does; but the cold preserves the pain. 

❛ You betrayed me. Betrayed my trust, you betrayed our friendship, you betrayed everything that I've ever stood for. You let me down! ❜

It resurfaces without a trigger but she gasps for breath all the same as if she were breaking surface from the sea that so threatens to drag her to its depths. It is not loud though and she has a hand against her heart. Eyelids close and lips press tight against one another as she bids the memory away, wishing to forget (and knowing she never will). The rain beats on. She gives a long exhale through pursed lips. She eats a bite of the cake and sips her tea. Not even reading the cards merit a smile. There is no need for a show today. Only deadpanned big brown eyes and parted lips only that only can only sigh. She sets the cards aside. Clearing up the tea and cake, she spends the rest of the day in bed.

The thought of taking a shower does occur to her. Maybe washing her hair and changing out of her pyjamas will lighten the mood. And yet, stay curled up in her duvet is all she does. She catches sight of her reflection on her three way mirror -- all messy hair and drooled on pillows and sheets that haven't been changed in over two weeks -- and she only sighs and looks at the apricot of her walls, at the white of her ceiling, at the drizzle that has been so consistent throughout the day. Sleep never comes for tired eyes that only look and blink but never see. Even when her phone rings (her father, the lock screen notifies her), she lets it ring twice more. She takes a deep breath, exhales, and smiles as she answers, hoping that the look will be enough for the tone to follow the act.

❝ Hey, dad. ❞

❝ Oh, yeah. Thanks. ❞

❝ I did get it, yeah. It was really sweet. ❞

❝ Did she? Well I haven't gotten anything. Maybe it'll come tomorrow. No post on Sunday, remember? ❞

❝ Nah, just making a dent on my marking. Went out to the pub with the girls last night so I'm a bit tuckered out, if I'm honest. Might just take a quiet night in. Got work tomorrow. ❞

❝ Yeah, dad. I'm all right. I promise. ❞

❝ I'll come to visit soon, okay? ❞

❝ I'll try to come 'round on Christmas or the day after. Lots to do, you know how it is. ❞

❝ 'Course I am. Peachy keen. Always. ❞

❝ Yeah, dad. I know. Uh huh. ❞

❝ Love you too. Talk soon. Bye. ❞

She presses the red button and throws the phone aside lackadaisically. It bounces along the plush surface of her unmade bed. She did get his email, yes, but she never read it. She expects that its sweet, coming from her father. She expects that it would have something to do with her mother and how Ellie'd be proud, that there'd be something about how this year's been tough, and something of the sort. Well-meaning, always, but the meaning of words can drown out in how often they're said, never as much having the same gravity as they used to do. She did get the package from Linda, however, but she will say that it got lost in the mail. Maybe she'll give it away to charity but God forbid she ever be caught in that. She spent the day before rather the same as how she's spending it now. Her marking had all been done since Friday evening. Every party invitation, she'd declined and complained of lethargy. Clara never knew when or how she had become so familiar with lies. When did she learn how to speak the language of falsehood so well that its become her common tongue? Of guilt, her features bear no marks. Only a weighed down melancholy haunts her eyes. She does not cry. Even when she wants to, its hardly useful.

She takes a long bath. The water is warm and is near overflowing with bubbles. There are lit candles and the whole room smells of cinnamon. The water soothes the skin and a weight she never realised was at the back of her neck simply melts away. Into the water, she practically surrenders. She rises and rinses it all off. She wraps her hair into a fluffy towel and she wraps a robe of similar make around herself. She retreats to her sitting room where she tries to put on the telly but shuts it off after ten minutes. She tries to read but the words do not have the pull nor do they inspire a drive. She has a change of clothes, dries and fixes her hair, puts on her makeup, and she leaves her flat. It is only five in the afternoon.

The sporadic, though tolerable, showers of rain carry on; the sound beats down against her umbrella. Cars whizz past her as she's walking on her own pace by the sidewalk. She goes to Tesco, picks up a few things for her empty fridge, and she's out of there nearly as soon as she's in. The entire time, her lips never move. Her bowed head never looks up. No one gives her a second look, neither does she hang about for idle chit chat. Clara simply walks and goes about her business. Alone. As she knows she now always will be. This is her self-serving penance, the remorse she lays before the temple of herself, in some seek of redemption. On her way back, she drops by Sunday UpMarket. She gets takeaway and this is the only time of this day that she must put on the mask of her idle pleasantries, of expected manners and rehearsed kindnesses. The minute their gazes are away from her, the veil lifts and she is downcast anew. 

Nothing changes in her return. It takes her two hours and what light of the Sun can be seen is already beginning to set, colouring the speckled grey skies with a vivid orange tinge. Her modest groceries are taken care of. She doesn't bother changing out of her clothes as she simply plops herself in front of the telly with her takeaway and watches Strictly's results show. Danny had always thought it was either Pixie or Frankie this year. Her decisions are often dependent on the week's leaderboard. There was one time that the pair of them had even gotten to a bit of a spat and it ended with them using the measly space of her sitting room in an attempt to recreate one of the Tangos. Some of the students did not miss the fact the pair of them came from the same direction the following morning. Oh, she'd thought herself so clever. She always is -- that is, she always used to be.

The show ends and there's nothing to do but wash up. There isn't much to wash up. Afterwards, she merely fixes herself a glass of wine and gets ready for bed. Perpetually exhausted, despite the lack of proper activity, her bed is the only thing that holds any sense of allure. At least, in her sleep, her memories turn to visions and what sights do these dream eyes behold. It rests now only in her memories, in the ghost-like memory of arms around her. She changes for bed. Her back against the padded headboard, she tries to read now of adventures that pale in comparison to the ones she's had but ever more vivid than what any prospect of tomorrow holds. She drinks the rest of her wine, gets up and puts the glass on the sink, brushes her teeth, and goes to bed. 

Out the window does her gaze rest until sleep claims her tired, big, sad eyes. Her features bear no marks of falsities now as not even sleep can grant her peace or relief. Only silence, more sweet silence, without the memory of song and sound to haunt her. Across the ever distant stars, she knows he's home -- a place she can only dream of making now, one that she will only get to when these tired eyes take their final rest and peace claims her adrenaline-seeking heart. It takes her two hours of gazing at nothing to fall asleep. She will not regret not setting her alarm as she knows she will wake up. Without fail. Even though there are some days when she wishes and prays she wouldn't.

It was a Sunday this year. She goes to sleep alone. She turned twenty eight today. 

Happy birthday, Clara Oswald.


End file.
